


(i want to be) where soul meets body

by BeautifullyLovely



Category: Six Feet Under
Genre: Canon Lesbian Character, College, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Multi, POV Female Character, POV Minor Character, Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5141855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyLovely/pseuds/BeautifullyLovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edie closes one book and starts another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(i want to be) where soul meets body

**Author's Note:**

> Named after Death Cab for Cutie's Soul Meets Body .

 

“Long time no see.” Anita says. She’s sitting on the shitty carpet of LAC-Arts’ dorm hallway, an arm hanging loosely from a leg pulled to her chest.  

  “Clearly,” Edie says. She leans against the door of her room, shutting it with her back.

 Anita taps her knuckles against the side of her leg: once, twice. She pulls herself to her feet with a grunt. “So, I’ve been thinking.” Tap, tap. “Russell’s a freaking douche.”  

 “No surprise there.” Quick-like, twin smiles dart across their faces.

 Anita sighs. “Anyway, my temporary roommate is bunking with her boyfriend after graduation, and I don’t have anyone to split rent with in the city, which is the only way I have a chance at staying in the city, if you know what I mean.” Anita runs a hand through her hair, black with splashes of white on the sides. Edie wonders when she changed it. “Since you totally need to bring your badass mix of slam poetry, electronic music, and making dudes cry to all the clubs downtown, I was thinking--split rent with me? I’ve already found a fixer-upper that doesn’t need to be fixed that badly.”

 Edie thinks about it. “I was heading down to the sushi place on Baker Street. Wanna come?”

 Over california rolls and miso soup, they shake on it.

 

Edie hates pettiness. It’s one of the things that she disliked most about LAC-Arts, how the teachers gossiped as much as the students, the break-up make-up template that became exhausting to her even though she only experienced it on the outside. She prides herself on not falling into the black-hole relationships of those around her. At least, she did, before Claire. Now she doesn’t really have much pride left.

She guesses she can understand Anita’s weird Russell infatuation a little better now than when they used to hang out in the same orbit of friends, and that understanding is what lands them in a two-bedroom one-and-a-half bath living space.

 It doesn’t make it suck any less when she drags open the door to their admittedly crappy apartment to see Anita yank a blanket over Jimmy’s treasure trail.

 “In my bed, really?”

 “It was closest.” Anita says, matter-of-fact, and Edie guesses she’ll take sex smell and dirty sheets if it means that she can have back the person who used to be comfortable screwing up in front of her.

 Emphasis on the screwing.

 “You better fucking wash it.” Edie goes into the bathroom to let them get dressed. She knew from age nine that pussy was for her, and while she wouldn’t flinch at the sight of Jimmy’s limp dick that doesn’t mean she’s volunteering for it.

She gets a gig at the club slash cafe Writer’s Quill, which is a pretty terrible name if you ask her, but she doesn’t really give a fuck she’s so excited.

 She tells Anita casually over a box of take-out, unable to stop the smile that breaks out when Anita launches over the flower ceramic plates landened with taco fillings--they have a total of two and a half plates, in case of guests--and throws her arms around her.

 “You’re gonna be so fucking famous.”

 Edie shakes her head. She knew going into this that her kind of art was never going to sell. Something about being too avant-garde and not avant-garde enough.   

 “You’re gonna be famous, and I’m going to be lucky if my pictures get picked up by a poor man’s Hallmark.”

 Edie lightly slaps her head. “Please,” She says, Anita wiggling out of her grasp. “I’m sure second-hand Hallmark would love to have you.” Anita makes an offended gasp, before settling down, her legs crossing at the ankle. Her mouth pulls itself into a smile, but her eyes are far away.

 Edie picks up a plastic cup, courtesy of Quick-Trip, and smacks it against Anita’s, drawing her eyes back to earth and out of whatever backwards thinking she landed herself in. “Hey, I’m going to kick ass at Writer’s Quill. You’ve got that show piece coming up.” She smiles. “We got this.”

 Anita smacks her cup back against Edie’s. “Got this.” They each take a drink.

 

Edie’s never nervous about shows. She realized it as the gift it was in high-school, patting her theatre friends on the back and handing them a bit of liquid courage from her purse when they thought the spotlight would turn them to dust. It’s not about breathing tricks or calming methods. It’s about feeling, in your soul, that you’re doing something important, bringing stuff to people and knowing that some of them are going to leave excited, thoughtful, going over your work again and again in their heads, committing it to memory. Those few that care are worth all the others who never will.

 It’s up to her to bring them the material at her best, so they can experience it fully.

She smiles at the crowd as she fiddles with her equipment, trying for a calm sort of mood before the storm. She likes this part, from the stage. She can always get a handle on a crowd when they’re buzzed but not transfixed, whether they’re ready to dive into her work or if they need a little convincing. Edie would be lying if she didn’t say she liked the ones that she had to convince.

 (Claire doesn’t count.)

 This crowd looks like a good one. Mostly young, some on phones or grouped into little clusters. Edie wants to pull up their eyes, will them out of their shells.

 With the drag of her nail down her touch-screen, a wail comes out of the speakers, striking out at the crowd. One girl jumps so high her iphone nearly takes a nosedive for the hard wood.  

 “Alright,” She smiles, her eyes mapping out the audience with precision. “Now that everybody’s here, I was thinking that we’d start out with a little conversation.”

 She trails her fingers over the keyboard in front of her, plucking out sweet notes. She’s always liked to begin ugly words with pretty music.

 “So, once there was this girl. She wasn’t much, really--pouty, cynical, maybe a little pretentious if we’re being honest.” Violins come at the touch of a finger, sharp and strange in an atmosphere used to beating drums and ringing guitars. The people cock their heads.

 “A ginger, which you think would be ugly. Fire hydrant ugly. Once-a-month ugly.” A guy sitting off to the side coughs, drink coming out of his mouth. “But no.” She smiles. “A pretty, definite face for a pretty indecisive attitude.”

 

An hour, two drinks, and three performances later, Edie looks up at the sound of a chair being pulled back from the table. The person--a woman, Edie notes--turns it around so that she can wrap her arms around the backrest, stradling it. Edie licks her lips and takes another sip of beer.

 “Ugh,” The woman says, eyeing Edie’s drink while taking the straw of her margarita into her mouth. “The beer they serve here tastes like piss.” She talks around it, her teeth canine where they bite into the plastic.

 Edie pauses, the bottle halfway to her lips. Alright, she thinks, let's have at it. She puts her beer back on the table with a slap, showing her own teeth. “Maybe if I wasn’t a struggling artist, I could pay for alcohol with fancy colors.”

 The woman looks down into her red--blood red, passion red, velvet red--drink, head tilted. “True,” She says, a drawl to her voice. Edie imagines that if she isn’t drunk she must be headed that way. “I don’t bet that poetry sells a lot. Here,” The woman takes out the straw of her margarita and pushes her glass across the table, into Edie’s chest. Edie manages to stop its momentum before the drink splashes onto her shirt. “Have a drink. I have this hunch that red drinks are way better than ones that look and taste like piss. Something to do with the psychology.”

 “The psychology?” Edie mocks. It’s gentler than expected, but not without the sting.   

 “Hey, don’t fault my science,” She says, as Edie sips from the margarita. The taste is sweet on her lips. “I’m going to become a social worker, ya know. I know what’s good for people.”

 “Well,” Edie pushes the margarita back across the table. “I guess you might be right this once.” Teeth bared, they grin at each other.

 “Edie.”

 “Nice to meet you Edie, I’m Parker. Your poem was awesome by the way.” They clasp hands.

 

It becomes a thing. Edie performs at the Writer’s Quill on Thursdays, and Parker joins her at a table in the back when Edie’s done with her act, which is around twenty minutes after Parker can hang up her apron.

 “It’s such shit, I can’t wear nail polish because it can, and I quote, chip off and fall into the drinks. When has that ever happened?” She rolls her eyes and stares sulkily at Edie’s black and yellow striped fingers. Edie wiggles them. “But the moneys’ good, and they don’t mind that I can’t work mornings ‘cause of class.”

 “So you actually are going to be a social worker?”  

 “Yeah,” Parker leans back into her chair, her perfect ringlets framing her face. “I was gonna be a big shot lawyer or a doctor, but then I got caught out cheating on my ACTs.”

 “No shit?” Edie leans forward.

 “Yeah,” Parker smiles an unpleasant smile. Her face looks like she sucked a lemon dry. “It was stupid. I was stupid.” She shrugs. “Well, probably still a little stupid, but then I guess everyone is.”

 Her face slowly returns to normal. “But anyway, I’m glad you seem to find it funny. Really,” She says, when Edie frowns. Edie likes to take the shit out of people, but only the ones who deserve it. “My friend in highschool, Claire. She got so pissed at me when I told her, never really got over it. She was probably ‘I told you so-ing’ my entire way to community college.”  

 Edie doesn’t know what her face is doing, but it must look bad, because Parker pauses. “You OK? Is--” Edie hates the recognition on her face. Hates that she knows. “Fire-truck hair?”

 Edie curls her hand into a fist, stares at her nails. “Fire hydrant sounded better.”

 They don’t say much after that, but Parker silently pushes her margarita towards her. It’s still just as sweet. “So,” Edie says, flicking hair and emotion off her face. “Community college?”

 “Finished up my core classes there, now I’m taking some at the local university. They have a good program for social work. It sounds nice, ya’ know? Helping people.”

 “I don’t know about helping people,” Edie says, stirring the drink around with its straw. Sugar clumps at the sides. “But I know about making them feel something.”   

 

Anita’s freaking out. “Fuck, they hate it.”

 “They don’t.” Edie says, her eyes drifting around the gallery. She’s never liked them, always high-modern white walls with people in suits and claustrophobic dresses. It’s so sterilized. She misses Writer’s Quill already, smokey atmosphere and a darkness that carves shapes into people’s faces, stars on foreheads and hearts on lips.  

 “They do.” She takes ahold of Edie’s arm, demanding attention. “Edie do something.”

 Edie lifts a brow. “What?”

 Anita huffs.  

 They stand and watch the people gather, one at a time at each picture, frowning and smiling in turn. Anita’s long nails, purple to Parker’s clear, dig into her skin. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she lets go.

 “Russell, hey.” She calls. A scruffy man in skinny jeans and a heavy scarf ambles over to them.

 “Hey Anita,” Russell says. “Edie,” He nods at the mention of her name, but doesn’t bother to look away from Anita. Edie snorts.

 “So glad to see you again Russell, I thought we had gotten rid of you.” She reaches out a hand until Russell is forced to shake it. Russell sucking on a lemon is a good look for him.

 Anita shoots her lazerbeam eyes, before turning her back to her. “So, do you like the gallery?”  

 Russell looks around the gallery for a second, trying to appear contemplative, before saying, “Yeah, it looks great. I really like the vibe in some of the pictures, the sepia-tinted stuff.”

 Anita smiles that smile, and Edie feels tempted for the first time since middle school to cock a two-finger handgun at her forehead, or, even better, Anita’s.

 

They head home, Anita giggly on champagne.

 “I thought you were done with that loser.”

 Anita swings her body from side-to-side, twisting and turning in her high-heels like a willow tree. The street-lights cast patterns on her skin, make her shiny. “He’s not a loser.” She pauses, her shoes clacking the sidewalk. “OK, maybe he is a loser, but he gets me.”

 Edie knows well enough to leave it alone. Anita’s problems are not hers, and yet--There’s been a weed growing in Edie’s stomach ever since LAC-Arts,and it eats up her common sense, makes her snort out condescendingly, “Oh sure, the guy who writes drunken odes to basement fucking and the hundreds of ways one can interpret a bag blowing in the breeze. The connection must be blazing.”

 Anita swallows. Edie can’t see her eyes behind the darkness. “Fuck you, Edie,” She’s drunk, so drunk. “Just because you didn’t get to feel it with Claire, doesn’t mean it isn’t between me and Russell.”

 Edie’s first reaction is to curse. “You don’t know anything, back off.”

 “I know enough.”    

They agree without saying anything to not bring it up when it’s bright and no amount of water and aspirin can cure the headaches. Anita silently passes Edie the last lemon poppy seed muffin, even though it was technically hers.

 

The next night, Parker invites her into her dorm. Edie figures she could use the distraction.

 She sighs. “And I thought I had finally escaped these.” The room is small and an off-white, likely the last place someone would consider comforting, let alone a stressed out college student.

 “Fuck off, if you didn’t come you’d be missing out on my roommate's excellent stash.” Parker jams a knife into a desk by the bunk bed, wiggling it into the small opening. A creak sounds. “Got it.” She holds up a bag, triumphant in her capture.

 An hour later, they’re discussing the origins of one of the regular bands that always play after Edie.   

 “Really?” Parker’s rubbing her chin in an exaggerated parody of thought.

 “I’m sure of it.”

 “So, lemme get this straight. The guy always on the left--”

 “The bassist.”

 Parker pouts while grinning at her. “I know what a bass guitar is.” She says, running a hand through her hair before it flops back down to her side. Edie’s eyes track the movement. “Anyway, he’s from Utah. He just escaped from his Mormon family to become a bisexual rockstar and entered into a relationship with his vocalist Ben Stiller--”

 “Surprisingly not related to the celebrity Ben Stiller.” Edie says, moving her fingers through the fibers of the carpet. Who knew it could be so soft?

 Parker rolls over onto her side. “...and his keyboardist Yolanda.”

 “Why the name Yolanda?”

 Parker shrugs as best she can with one arm supporting her weight. “It just feels right, right?”

 

When Edie gets home, there’s just enough sun that she doesn’t have to turn on any light switches if she opens a window. Anita’s probably still asleep, possibly with Russell. Edie would like to avoid that clusterfuck as long as possible, so she plugs headphones into her computer before she starts pulling together beats, adding in distortion for the dreamy feeling she gets on drugs, when the world is bright with possibility.  

 

Russell, though not in the apartment that morning, eventually comes over after Anita gives up on finding places for them to fuck. Apparently, they can’t do it at Russell’s place because he shares a room with one of his roommates. Edie doesn’t remind Anita of any previous bed defilement courtesy of Jimmy. There’s a ninety percent chance it would lead to a slap fight between Jimmy and Russell, and Edie just doesn’t care at this point.

 “Hey, so I kind of didn’t pay attention to you back at the gallery, sorry about that.” Russell says. Edie pauses Game of Thrones and looks up at him. Best to do this now. He threads his fingers through the messenger bag’s strap weighing down on his shoulder, pulling it in different directions with his hands. “You’re just--” He visibly calms himself. “You’re kind of intimidating, like--” He leaves off the shoulder strap, breathes out through his teeth. “Sorry, again.”

 “Alright.” She rewinds and presses play. “Glad we got that sorted.”

 And that’s that.  

 

Parker, shouting over the rock band up front, tells her, “I’m fucking starving. You?” Edie shrugs, says she wouldn’t mind some food. “Cool,” Parker grabs her purse. “We can’t eat here though. Trust me, I work here. The food sucks.” Edie’s beginning to like her grin.

 They walk, huddled together in the cold. “You know what's lame?" Asks Parker, tapping the quiet, telling it to budge over and make room. It’s a strange quality, to be able to break the silence the way she does, where it feels less like breaking and more like pulling up a rock, letting words scuttle out from underneath that have been hiding there all along. Edie cocks her head. “You know how for guys, they get more handsome when they put on layers, while girls get hotter when they take them off.”

 “What do you think?” Edie glances at her. “You’re a lesbian, prettier with or without clothes?”

 “Pervert.” Edie says, pushing at her with her shoulder. They stay leaning against each other. “It depends on the girl.”

 “Coy.” Parker says, approvingly and disapprovingly.

 “And the place.” Edie lets her voice flit up at the end. Parker chuckles, throaty from too much weed, smokey and low.

 The back of Edie’s neck pricks.

 

She knows she’s screwed when they wind up in some cheap thrift store, Edie flicking through lacy tops and Parker pulling apart heaps of folded jeans. Parker wears jeans better than any girl Edie’s met.

 “How do you feel about lesbian porn?” Parker says it conversationally, her eyes never leaving the denim.

 “That’s really your topic of choice?” Edie asks. “You sound like the douchebags at my high school after I came out.”

 “Ah,” Parker says, fake philosophical, flipping her a smile. “But there’s a crucial difference between me and them.”

 “And that is?”

 “They only wanted to fuck you. I want to know, like, if the male perspective fucks with female pleasure, and all that.”

 Edie throws down one of the tops. It hits the table with a soft flop. Her eyes are serious. Slowly, she brings up her hand and blows air over her fingertips, a dark plum. The ends of her nails are shaved off close to the skin.

 Parker shoves her. “Fuck off.” She’s smiling. They both are. “I know that, at least. I’m serious.”

 She is. At least, Edie thinks she is. Edie goes back to the lacy shirt on the shelf, picking at the delicate fringe where the cleavage would poke through. Her breasts, a minute ago just an extension of herself--the same as a leg, a hand, an eyelash--now feel heavy in their cups, tightly constrained by the wire fencing holding in her flesh.

 “There’s no passion.” They’re looking at each other now, because Edie can’t step down from a challenge, and Parker, it seems, doesn’t know when to quit. “Just two or more straight girls performing for a camera.”

 A second, a minute, then the barrier around them pops. Suddenly, Edie can hear a woman behind her shuffling through a rack of clothing, see a sales rep over Parker's shoulder check a price. No longer are they the only two people in the store. Parker blinks, and like an animated doll with its string pulled, she springs back to life.

 “That’s stupid. They’re, like, the same parts.” Parker reaches down and makes a triangle at her crotch, her hips swinging side to side.

 Edie flings the shirt at her. It catches in her hair, frizzing the sides. Edie likes it that way, thinks it makes Parker look more natural and real, like a princess who looks better with a couple of battle scars and a torn dress than she ever did locked up in the tower.

 “This is hot.” Parker says, looking at the black lace tank, enunciation on the ‘T’. “You should totally try it on.”

 Edie models, twirling in the mirror. A glow settles under her skin, the same kind she always gets performing.

 “Hot.” Parker says, again, like it’s a fact.

 Edie buys the shirt.

 

“So,” Anita says, picking at the chips in the middle of the table. The cheese is stuck to the plastic rim, the chicken dry. Parker was right, the food here is shit.

 “So,” Edie parrots back. It’s only a matter of time. She twirls her hair around a finger, exaggerating the movements. She considers faking the smack of gum, but Anita stops her with a smack of her palm to the table. Her eyes are wide and stressed, even more dramatic due to the dark outline around the lashes.

 “Are you even listening?”

 Edie lets go of her hair. She’s thinking platinum blonde. “Russell had sex with Jimmy again. So you got pissed at Russell and had sex with Jimmy in revenge--”

 “--And then Jimmy got mega angry at Russell, because Russell insulted his mom, which, I have to admit, was fucking hilarious.” Anita takes a second to pause, clearly reminiscing, a lazy smile on her face, before perking back up. “So I was like--why the heck am I sitting here listening to this, you know?”

 Edie nods within the pause.

 “So I went and got some of Jimmy’s stash, ‘cause he always has the best stuff, and I was like: ‘Hey losers’,” Anita cups her hands around her mouth in demonstration. “‘Do you want any of this or not?’ Because at that point they had stopped fighting--”

 “Hey, what’s up?”

 Anita breaks off.

 “Anita, Parker. Parker, Anita.” Parker sticks out a hand. Anita glances up, a quirk to her brow, but she takes the hand all the same.

 Shocking, Edie notes, that Parker had appeared at the mention of an excellent stash. Parker retaliates by pushing her way into the booth Edie’s in, digging a warm elbow into her spine.

 “So,” She says, “Who’s the owner of this stash, again?”

 Anita lights up, happy for an audience of two, and regales them with tales of LAC Art’s partner swapping. “I mean,” She says, “It’s not like we haven’t done a threesome before, there was that one time, you were there Edie, when we were all high--”

 Parker spits out a little of her drink--dark, dark red--from her lips, but when Edie turns to look, the shock on her face is being edged out by glee. Parker makes little ‘go-on’ motions with her hand, clearly invested.

 Anita grins, pleased, Parker having passed her standards.

 

“Oh my god,” Parker says, after Anita leaves with a tilted-up chin and a smile. She leans heavily on Edie’s side, bare arms sticky with sweat crush together. “Your friends are awesome.”

 She snags Parker’s margarita out of her loose grip, brings it to her lips without asking. “Says the one who doesn’t have to live with them.”

 Parker’s eyes widen out of their sleepy half-curves. “Oh right,” She says slowly, “Because apparent orgies aren’t fun at all.”

 “It was once.” Edie says primly, but Edie has never been good at affecting prim or proper, and she breaks it thoroughly with: “I only saw them get halfway there before they took it to the shower.”

 Parker chuckles hoarsely. Her cheeks are flush with heat and her mouth puffy with drink. She sticks out a tongue to lick at her chin, covered in alcohol after she clumsy missed her lips. They might be a little drunk.

 “Did you at least get a glance at Anita’s breasts?”

 It’s like turning a faucet, cold, hot, cold, hot, and back again. Edie’s dizzy with beer and confusion. “I thought--are you--”

 Parker shrugs, doesn’t help her out in the slightest. “Hey,” She pats Edie on the arm. “Yolanda, the bisexual rockstar.” She bursts out in giggles.  

 Edie smiles. In the middle of the fuzziness, there’s a warm, liquid center.  

 

“Popcorn?” Edie shakes the bowl.

 Russell and Jimmy reach out to grab a handful at the same time, fingers brushing. They’re quick to yank their hands back, popcorn-free, like they’re being caught red handed. Edie’s guesses that maybe they are, with the darted looks they send each other over her shoulder.

 She shrugs, pops a couple into her mouth.

 “Edie, boys,” Anita chimes. She has a bottle of wine in one hand and three fancy glasses held by the stems in the other.

 ”I sold six photographs. Six!” She had told Edie after her last showpiece.

 “And you bought wine glasses?”

 “Um, yeah,” Heavy emphasis on the ‘yeah’. “First sell since LAC, we have to celebrate.” That ‘we’ is still ringing in Edie’s ears. It amazes her, how Anita trusts so heavily in their friendship that she never bothers to question it.

 She pads over to them, feet cloaked in fishnets, smudged eyeliner creating a dirty effect. She looks like a punk rock wet dream. Russell and Jimmy, their mouths open and their eyes tracking, seem to think so. Edie, after years of friendship and turmoil, isn’t so affected.

 Anita pops the cork on the wine, and foam slides down the sides of the glass, utterly decadent in its excess. Edie’s stomach preemptively warms.

 A muffled shout sounds from outside. Anita pops up, handing the wine off to Jimmy, and hurries toward the door. “Hey Edie,” She says, slow and high, like she knows she did wrong. “I invited Parker over. Hope that’s cool.”

 It’s so not cool, what the hell--

 “Popcorn and wine?” Parker asks. It’s an open comment, meant for anyone in the room, but her eyes are on Edie, teasing her. She claps together her hands. “Awesome, I brought the party favors.” She rustles her bag. Jimmy, himself an expert in party favors, grins.

 Like children, they gather in a circle on the floor, left over seventies shag. Anita settles herself in between Russell and Jimmy, her shoulders puffed up like peacock feathers, pleased. Edie drags her hands through the carpet, imagines Anita’s black and white hair--”I bleached it as a dare.”--knotted in her fingers. She yanks. Hard.

 

They get absolutely trashed. Some for different reasons than others.

 “Truth or dare?” Parker asks her. She’s not exactly grinning, but it’s close. Edie’s arms drag at her sides, heavy with drink and good company. Jimmy still has whip cream dotted in his hair from the last round of dares. He scrubs at his temple.

 “Fuck,” He says, grimacing. “It’s fucking sticky.” Russell wheezes into his arm, tangled hair coming down to cover his face. Jimmy’s frown twists in his direction, as if he doesn’t know whether he wants to scratch at him or ask him to lick his wounded pride better.

 “Truth,” Edie says decisively.

 “What,” Parker says, leaning closer, “Do you like a girl to do when you’re in bed.” She’s staring at Edie, her eyebrow quirked, and that’s it--there’s no room for ambiguity. Parker just willed away any lingering opaqueness, and all that’s left is a fucking declaration, gleaming up at her like the shiniest of fresh fruit.

 Edie’s done giving her second chances. If Parker doesn’t know when to quit, that’s her problem. And so Edie leans that last bit closer, her mouth against Parker’s ear. She lets out whispers, dark and tinted in sin and indulgence, slick and wet. Parker breathes in, and she doesn’t breathe out.   

 When Edie draws back, her lips hit against Parker’s jaw, and it’s a singe, Parker’s skin, and Edie has to cool it with her tongue. Parker’s eyes are black. The hairs on Edie’s arms lift.

 A giggle escapes from over a shoulder, and it’s like a lifeline, pulling Edie out from underwater. She catches her breath, sees Parker do the same.

 Anita’s batting away Jimmy’s hands, huge on her hips. Russell peaks out from his hair, a mix of jealousy and fascination. “Hey,” Anita says, between laps at Jimmy’s temple. One of her hands curves behind her, running up Russell’s arm. “We’re gonna leave you guys the rest of the wine.” She says it like she’s doing a favor, all the while standing up, Jimmy and Russell each glued to a hip.  

 She blows a kiss, her eyes wicked at Edie as she does a little nod in Parker’s direction. Edie's not a fan of violence as a means of solution, she'd rather pull her punches with words, but looking at Anita she’s reconsidering her position. When she turns back around, Parker is offering her a glass of red wine with a smile.

 “Drink with me?” There’s really only one way to respond to that.

 Edie takes the wine. Their fingers carefully don’t brush.

 

It’s almost inevitable. If Edie’s honest, which she strives to be, it is inevitable. Parker is shaken out, hair wild around her shoulders, lips plump with drink, and she’s leaning in, in, in, and she’s saying, “Hey,” All friendly, as if this isn’t a big deal at all. Edie’s inclined to follow her lead, but only in this, only just once.

“Hey,” She echoes.

Parker shifts, her body liquid, and reaches to curl a hand around Edie’s neck. Her fingers are small, dainty even, but the pads are deeply calloused, revealing hidden talents, a willingness to live rough and fast. The nails, long and uneven, dig uncomfortably into Edie’s skin near the dip leading into her hair. Platinum blonde.

The kiss, when it comes, is lush. Edie didn’t expect Parker to kiss any other way. Parker is warm and natural. Under the perfume--name brand, expensive, trying to be sensuous but falling left of the mark--she smells musky, alive. Edie wants to bury her face in her neck, until she can reach Parker’s center, the basest and realest part of her, free of bad perfume and expectations.

When she pushes, Parker goes down. They end up wrapped together, head-to-feet. Parker stretches, her back arching, and it’s like moving through a wave. Edie weathers the storm, pinning Parker’s hips to the floor, licking into her mouth.

Parker kisses better than a dream, experience clear in every brush of a lip, flick of a tongue. It settles Edie, turns the buzzing in her stomach into a low thrum, bass-heavy. Beneath her shirt, Parker’s skin is red hot. Edie presses closer, until they’re one and the same, trying to steal some of that heat.

Parker giggles, her shirt across the room, as Edie drags kisses down her chest, rubs her cheeks against the cups of her bra. She hums. “That’s nice.” She says, as Edie adds a hint of teeth.

Edie encourages her, nudges her to talk as she makes her way down her stomach. The button on Parker’s jeans pulls tight, leaving a faint press of plum against her skin. Edie thinks about popping it loose, releasing that hurt so it can cool into a throb.

Parker tugs a little on her hair, urging her up, and Edie goes, biting a little at her skin in defiance. “What?” The huskiness of her own voice shocks her. She hasn’t felt this way in a while, honey-dripped and edging on satisfied. She runs a hand down Parker’s back, over her ass.

“I just--” Parker sighs. She shifts again, her muscles going rigid, breaking the sweetness of the atmosphere. “Hey, I’ve never done this kind of thing before, fucked a girl.” She smiles. It’s an awful smile, calculated for response. Edie wonders how long Parker has practiced it in the mirror, if it traces back years. Parker levels an arm around Edie’s waist. Heavy. Too strong. “You could help me out though, right?” She leans in to whisper it in Edie’s ear, and as she does a gust of her perfume hits--acid citrus, overwhelming.

Edie recoils.  

"You OK?" Edie blinks away red hair and pale skin, until all that’s left is Parker, leaning up on her elbows, chest exposed and face nearing hesitant. It’s the look that gets to her, all earnest and caring, like she wasn’t just going to throw all her ignorance and naivety at Edie and expect her to compensate for it, no questions asked.

“You know,” Edie says. She says it slowly, each word the thud of a weight being dropped in a silent room. “Why don’t you just go fuck yourself?”

Parker’s face is priceless. Edie considers taking a picture.

“Wait,” Parker’s lips pull up, as if in an involuntary grin. She chuckles shakily. “Why are you so pissed? C’mon, touch me.” Her hand reaches out for Edie’s. Edie doesn’t take it.

Parker’s knees come up to cover her chest, to shield it from Edie’s eyes. Curled up like she is, she looks vulnerable. It’s not a look Edie ever thought to associate with Parker. It pisses her off even further, that she can’t unpackage all her frustration right here, yell at Parker to fuck off, fuck out of her apartment.

She doesn’t have the heart, one way or the other. To be cutting and cruel. To be kind and considerate. There’s either too little compassion or too little spite running through her veins.

In the end, she leaves Parker the couch with her T-shirt bundled up in her hands, flicking the light off as she passes the stairs on her way to her bedroom.

The couch is empty by the time she wakes up.

 

Edie writes shitty poems about straight girls who don’t know when to quit. Cheap kisses in bars that never lead to anything and sweet secrets that never stay sweet for long.

She backs the delete button over each and every word. Claire’s already gotten so many of her verses. Parker doesn’t deserve a single one.

 

Edie doesn’t avoid Parker. They work in the same place, at the same time. Again, it’s inevitable, this confrontation.

It’s just-- She was expecting to be angrier.

Parker’s smart. Edie will give her that. She corners her after a particularly good show, when Edie’s still feeling the glow in her chest she always gets from the hoots of the crowd. It’s better than any drug some idiot cooked up in his basement, than apple pie and icecream and chocolate all rolled into one.

Parker corners her and says: “I want to talk.” They get a booth in the back, where the light dips low and the band’s guitar gently wafts over their heads, caresses their eardrums instead of hitting them like hammer to nail. Part of Edie thinks this might make it harder, Parker pulling her back here, a hand reaching for a wrist before faltering.

She looks soft in the flicker of the lamp above them, a rosy red shade. It’s like some kind of fucked up date, and this--Parker’s eyes wobbling over her frame--is the breakup.

“Look,” Parker starts. She pauses, rubbing a hand over her arm, making the skin there flush to match her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re problem is,” She holds up her hands as Edie’s face turns dark. “Just--geez, sorry I guess.” She says, as if any fight left has gone out of her. It reminds Edie of Russell, the way she looks at her now, and, out of everything, there’s no way Edie can handle that.

“Look,” And it’s a mirror image of Parker, a gearshift into a difficult conversation she doesn’t even know is worth having. She wonders if Parker feels the same way. If that night on the crappy seventies shag messed with her more than she is willing to admit. “I’m not into being your fucked up experiment.” A pause, a deliberate choice to push forward. “Once was more than enough.” Parker’s eyes widen. It’s like a puzzle piece being slotted into place, a light-bulb flash.

It’s easier after that. Parker nods, solemn, as if committing a vow. “Wait here.” She says, as she steps out of the booth.

She comes back with two glasses full of sweet drink, slides one over to Edie on the table, soft and slow, so it rests without Edie having to stop it from splashing. “Fancy colored alcoholic drinks, on the house.”

Edie shakes her head, but taps her drink to Parker’s. The ringing of glass on glass is almost melodic.

 

After that, things are different. Things are always different, one way or another, after talks like those, but exactly how it’s different is a problem. Parker sits, leaning back in the booth as if she doesn’t want to occupy the same space as Edie. She teases, but it’s painfully PG, a flirtatious overture nowhere in sight. Penises and vaginas have mysteriously left any and all conversation, and Edie is pretty sure Parker actually tried to punch her playfully on the arm last week.  

This has to stop.

“So,” She says, “Remember that time we almost had sex on the floor?” The crowd goes silent. A younger guy, maybe seventeen, takes on the appearance of a guppy, his eyes bulging out.

Edie adjusts her microphone, unfolds her newly written poem, ‘To a Friend’. The ink is still drying on the paper.

“Yeah, I bet you do.” She flips a switch. A cha-ching sounds. The crowd rumbles with suppressed laughter. “At least, I do, because last time I checked, you can’t amnesia your way into forgetting sexual encounters.” Edie pauses, licks her lips into a smile. “Though a lot of people I know try.”  

Edie doesn’t see her, Parker having vanished during the performance. A rock sits heavy in Edie’s stomach, dull and flat. If she breathes right, she can pretend it’s not there.

She won’t regret the poem, is the thing. She can’t stand to have the truth lying between them every time Parker asks about her day, or when Edie smiles as Parker lets her steal a sip from her glass, as if their useless fumble were some priceless antique, there but untouched, collecting dust from misuse.

Outside, the wind blows fast. Edie lets it soak her pores, focuses on its sting. She looks at the dark ahead of her, and resigns herself to a long walk alone in the cold. As she lets out a breath, a pair of arms wrap around her, tight and strong.

“You fucking bitch.” A voice breathes against the side of her head, warming her up half-way. It’s a relief, that breath. A couple of people walking stop to stare.

Edie turns in Parker’s arms, snuggles up into her thick jacket, rubbing her cheek against her hat. “It was good wasn’t it?” Edie says, slightly smug, thinking back on her poem.

“God, I hate you.” Parker grumbles, shaking her side to side in her grip, a mocking affection. Her warmth heats Edie the entire way through.    

Parker and Edie walk, hip to hip, out of heavy downtown, the streetlights flickering like fireflies above them. A group of guys whistle at them as they move past, but Parker only throws her arm over Edie, flashing a middle finger. Edie presses a smacking kiss to Parker’s temple.

She feels good, strong, like black glass and pleated leather. She turns to her left.  

“Parker?”

Parker shoots her a questioning glance.

“Don’t think you can get away with calling me a bitch.”

And like that, it’s back on.  
 

“You should come meet my friends.” Parker tells her later, so Edie wraps a scarf around her neck and takes a bus up to the college.

“This is actually pretty nice.” Edie says, looking around. The common rooms have a far better layout than the dorms. The windows are huge, light pouring in on the cushy chairs littered around the open space. A few people have set up a music player in the corner, and soft rock drifts from the speakers.  

“I know, right?” Parker says. She pulls her hat off her head, shaking out her hair. “They set up this great image for the visitors, and then they stuff us in those grotty dorm rooms, with, like, three inches of space between each person.”

A group off to the side wave at Parker. There’s three guys, Blue Button Shirt, Man Bun, and Sports Jersey, and two girls, one dressed in a preppy sweater skirt combo, the other in a David Bowie tank top. She has killer hair, purple and black cornrows down to her waist.

“Nice shirt.” Edie says. “Favorite album?”

The girl grins, it’s maybe a bit more appreciative than the comment calls for. “Low, of course. I’m Ameana. You’re Edie, right?”

Edie smiles in return.

Parker slips into the seat next to Ameana, leaving Edie to sit next to Man Bun, and begins introducing her to the others. Sports Jersey, whose actual name is Jared, breaks the ice by starting a contest of ‘dumbest thing you have ever done’, kicking off the round with snorting crushed up sweethearts.

“I swear, my face was on fucking fire. I had to spend an hour holding my nose under the faucet, and it still burned the rest of the day.”

Sammi, the girl in the sweater, rolls her eyes and crosses one leg over the other, while the rest of the table either tries to follow her example by pretending they’re above thinking snorting sweethearts like cocaine is funny or immediately cave into fits of laughter.

Edie’s lips twitch. “You should meet my friend Anita’s boyfriend, Jimmy. I think you guys would have a lot in common.” Parker snorts loudly, clapping Edie on the arm, and stays leaning on her side. It’s possibly the least attractive sound Edie has ever heard, but her stomach still heats with pride.

 

“You’re friends are nice.” Edie says. They’re hanging out in Parker’s dorm room, her roommate having left for vacation.

Parker hums in agreement. “I met Sammi at community college. She kind of saved my ass. I was feeling sorry for myself at the time, but she knocked me out of it. We made a pact to make it here.”

“She’s going into nursing, right?”

“Yeah,” Parker scoots over on her bed. She pats the now open space. Edie rolls her eyes, but she spreads herself out on the blanket, making sure to hit Parker’s shin with her foot. Parker pokes her in the side. “We met the rest of the guys after we came here. What about you; how’d you met Anita?”

    Edie huffs a breath, her mind tracing back towards an early show, where she didn’t have music to cover her flaws and her words tripped over themselves instead of melting together, smooth as anything. She has a flash of Anita in a sparkly black corset and peek-a-boo red heels.

    “One of my shows. She kind of stood out.”

    Parker’s brow furrows into valleys, the corners of her lips puckering. “Did you--” Parker waves a hand. “Were you into her?”

    “What? No way.” Heavy empathize on the no, case-closed. Parker’s still looking at her, though, the lines in her face dubious. “It’s not--” Edie purses her own lips. She looks at Parker and thinks: Alright, what about the truth, because it’s a bit more complicated than she’s making it sound.

“OK, so you know when you look at someone,” Edie starts, turning on her side so her and Parker are mirroring each other, yin and yang. “And you think, maybe, but then you get to know them better, and it fades?”

“Ouch.” Parker says, laughing, and Edie flicks her with a finger.

“It’s not the way you make it sound.” She says, but she’s smiling now, too.

Parker suddenly goes silent. It’s a fast moodswing, happy to serious, a blank-faced stare from a laughing grin, and Edie’s shocked into following her, her mouth straightening out.

“But, like, what if it is?” Parker asks.  

Because that sounds mean, Edie thinks, because it sounds like a bigger deal than it was. “Can we not talk about this? It’s done.” Edie says. She feels hot, like someone took a poker and shoved it into a wound. Her eyes widen, and she has to blink several times in a row to clear her gaze.

“Are you OK?” Parker asks, the valleys in her face smoothing out, filling with healing water. She reaches a hand to Edie, gently touches the side of her face to push back her bangs where they hide her eyes. The touch is so careful, so slow, that her hand wobbles before touching down. When she does, it’s like a livewire. Edie jerks back.

“I’m fine.” She is.

(Will be.)

 

A few months pass, college finals pass, and: “I fucking passed! All A’s except for one B.” Parker shouts in her face, wraps around her like surran paper. Edie couldn’t escape if she tried.

Sammi and Ameana giggle at each other, apparently used to Parker in all her glory. Anita surges forward. “Girl’s night, let’s celebrate!” She says, jumping in a way that shows off her new pair of boots. Anita doesn’t actually have anything to celebrate, neither does Edie, but she never really let that stop her.

“I’m thinking the bar at 103rd.” Parker says, confidently. “Hot people always hang out there.”

Sammi pauses in her laughter. “Brad Pitt levels of hot or Chris Evans levels?”

In the background, Ameana snarks. “Neither of those examples really work for two fifths of this party.”  

“Ugh, Brad Pitt is, like, so gross.” Parker says. She turns to Edie. “I’m thinking Angelina Jolie. She was always the better half.” She winks.

Edie’s starting to reconsider this celebration, if it can be called that. Sammi had left hours earlier, a guy on her arm. Anita and Parker are drunk dancing in the middle of their fourth club, their arms around each other, a ring of guys circling them. Edie think about picking them off, one by one.

“Why do they do that?” Edie asks. Ameana leans over for a better look, her hair falling over her shoulder as she does. The ends brush Edie’s arm, and she shivers.

“Because that’s Parker for you.”

Edie takes a sip of her beer. It tastes salty, flat, like it needs more sugar. She sighs. “And that’s Anita.”

Anita goes in for a kiss, her lips drunkenly searching, but Parker turns her head at the last moment. They glance off a cheek. Edie turns to Ameana. She’s pretty--clear skin, bangles, studded boots. Edie aches; she doesn’t remember the last time she touched someone with purpose.

“Do you maybe want to leave? Do something else?” Edie asks, her eyes searching. Ameana swallows a second, two, then chuckles. It doesn’t seem to be directed at Edie, but it still makes her skin prickle.

“It’s tempting, especially right now, believe me.” She smiles at Edie. The gleam in her eyes is fierce, secretive. Edie wants to know what’s hiding there. “But I don’t think it would be a good idea.” Ameana turns back to the dancing girls, Anita having abandoned her partner for a guy in a red tank. Parker stands in the center of the dance floor, her eyes shrouded in the strobe lights. She looks alone, even surrounded by people, something trying to blend into an environment that doesn’t suit it.

When she turns, her gaze locks onto Edie, and it’s a hit straight to the heart, a quick KO. They stay like that for a second, and it’s like fucking West Side Story, music slowing, people dissolving as her eyes get lost in the waves of Parker’s hair. Edie breaks away; all the classics end in tragedy.   

“She’s pretty.” Ameana says. Edie turns to look at her, but her eyes are a fortress, and Edie has no way of knowing how to break inside. So they sit, together but apart.

Edie goes home alone that night; she listens to Anita fuck Jimmy and Russell through the walls.

 

The last thing she wants is to be left with Russell for a day, but what Edie wants isn’t always part of her friends’ consideration.

Jimmy and Anita said they’d be at the store. It’s been about three hours since they took off, giggling on each other’s shoulders. Edie bets her entire share of the rent that they’re out fucking in the backseat of someone’s car.

Edie drags her hands through her hair. There are knots at the back, heavy, too tangled to unravel with just her fingers. She’ll need a brush, maybe conditioner, and when is the owner of Writer’s Quill going to get back to her? She needs more shifts. Shit, Parker will be there. “Do you want breakfast?” Edie asks, yanking open cupboards, bare except for ramen and the end pieces of moldy bread. Damn.

Russell startles. “What?”

Edie’s head pounds; she drank way too much last night. “Do you want breakfast?” She says again, slowly, as if the phrase might be too difficult for his brain to sort through. “I have ramen, or ramen.”

Russell blinks. Once. Twice. “Ramen’s good.”

They sit on the floor, because it’s more comfortable than the cheap kitchen chairs.

“This is kind of disgusting.” Russell says.

“Then don’t eat it.”

He eats it. There are faces involved.

When the bowls are scraped clean, and Edie’s head and heart hurt a little less, she turns to Russell and asks “How can you do it?” Because it’s something she’s been wondering about for a while, and right now she doesn’t feel kind enough to keep it to herself.

“Do what?” He asks, predictability.

“Date them at the same time.” It’s not as if polyamory is some new concept to Edie, but she can’t imagine the three of them--Anita, Russell, Jimmy--with all their sharp edges and soft centers, being able to balance out.

Russell looks at her, surprised. He’s always had wide eyes, and it makes him seem young, despite his raggy hair and stubble. “I guess--” He pauses, clearly giving the questing due thought. “I couldn’t have done it a year ago, I would have fucked it up.” He takes a second to scratch at his chin. “But I guess I got tired of fucking things up. I kind of want to see if I can have something nice for a while. It probably won’t last,” He says, and for a second his young face turns old. “But I like it. I like them, even if I suck at showing it sometimes.”

Strange, this guy, such a douchebag shouldn’t have the ability for deep thinking. “It was weird, at LAC Arts.” Russell says, waving his spoon around the empty bowl. “With Claire. I liked her so much, loved her.” He swallows. “And I know you did.” He adds, a bit hesitantly. Edie snorts, too tired to snap at him, too tired to deny. “Even Jimmy was into her a bit, and Anita was really upset when she took off and didn’t call.”

Russell tilts his head, considering. “I think maybe we were all just a little bit in love with her, in different ways.”

“And now it’s time to move on?” Edie asks, looking straight at him, maybe for the first time.

“Yeah,” Russell says. “Now it’s time.”  

    

Parker invites her to the ballet, saying her parents left an extra ticket, and Edie tells her yes right away. She maybe wants to see what will happen.  

When she gets there, Parker’s waiting for her in the open area outside the theatre. They gets drinks, champagne, and Edie feels light for the first time in a while.

Parker’s hair is twisted elegantly on the side of her head. She dressed in a deep purple gown that sways as she walks, and she looks like a goddess. The way the fabric drapes across her chest is almost artful, and Edie doesn’t let herself feel conflicted in admiring it.

“You look great.” She says, doesn’t lie, and Parker’s face lights up brighter than the streetlights on their way home, when Parker threw an arm around her shoulders and Edie pressed a kiss deep into her cheek.

“I know.” Parker says, and Edie smiles in hidden delight. Not all women are built that way. “You do too, obviously. You’re like some sort of galactic space queen.”

It might be the best compliment on her appearance Edie has ever received.

 

The ballet is beautiful, from the dancing to the costumes to the staging to the orchestra. During intermission, Parker makes her laugh as she points out all the fallacies of the plot, and she listens carefully as Edie explains the brilliance of the cello section during the tense confrontation between mother and son.  

They’re interrupted, midway through snarking about the king’s infidelities, by a woman and man, well into their fifties. They’re each dressed in plain clothes that still somehow speak of wealth. “Parker,” The woman calls. “Who is your friend?”

Parker seems to shrink into herself, the gregarious personality of a few minutes ago wilting under the stare of the man on the woman’s side.

“I’m Edie, nice to meet you.” Edie’s eyes are narrow, her face pleasantly cold. She curves a hand around Parker’s wrist. The woman’s eyes latch onto the gesture for a moment, before appearing to blink it out of consciousness. She smiles, and Edie can see the corners of her mouth where the lipstick smudged.

“Hello,” Says the man. His voice is flat sounding, impersonal. “I am Parker’s father, and this is my wife, Samantha. I trust that you are enjoying the seats?”

“They’re great, Dad.” Parker says, her voice clearly strained, trying for the same kind of flatness. The man straightens, his spine rigid.

“Well,” The woman starts, her gaze darting between Parker and the man, Edie forgotten in the tension. “We should probably go back to our seats.” She says, despite half the theatre having not yet returned, still outside for a nip of alcohol and a comfortable place to chat. The man barges back through the crowd, the woman trailing delicately behind him.

“My dad,” Parker says, sighing, with a flap of her hand. “And his wife.” She picks at her dress, sullen. “She’s not so bad, I guess, but he hasn’t really gotten over the SAT thing.” There’s guilt on her face, shame, and it looks so wrong, so out of place, that Edie never wants to see it there again.

Her palm slips from Parker’s wrist onto her hand, and Parker, without looking at her, twines their fingers together, tight, until they can’t be broken apart. They sit like that for a while, quiet, until Edie feels Parker slowly start to relax beside her.

“And your mom?”

“She’s better.” Parker says. “Like, she’s still disappointed, but she’ll take time out of the disapproving looks for us to visit her life coach together. She says she wants to help steer me back on track.”

“Looks like you’ve already done that yourself.” Edie says, serious.

Parker’s face breaks open, just for a second, a tick, a blink of the eye, but the image stays burned into the back of Edie’s mind. Then, slowly, Parker smiles.

“Thanks.” She says, almost soft, and leans her head against Edie’s shoulder. Edie rests her cheek against Parker’s hair.

They stay like that, until the curtains close for the final time, the lights brightening.

 

“Come to my dorm.” Parker says. “My roommate is never there.”

They lay curved towards each other, on their sides, each one half of a heart.

“I’ve fucked a lot of people.” Parker says. She doesn’t say it boasting, or teasing. She doesn’t play it for shock value, though Edie guesses she might have once, and there’s no shame in her voice when she says the words. It just is, a fact.

Edie doesn’t ask how many. Edie doesn’t care.

“Sometimes it sucked.” Parker adds. “There are people I wish I could forget, like the shitty camp counselor who kicked me and Claire off a camping trip in high school.”

Claire’s name spikes something in Edie. She acknowledges it, and it passes, until all that’s left is Parker, their eyes locked. “You know, that asshole gave me gonorrhea.”

Edie snorts. She can’t help it, the statement came out of nowhere.

“Nowhere!” Parker shouts, playfully mad. “I’m pretty sure we were having a conversation about sex.”

“At least it wasn’t herpes?” Edie says, placating. Parker nudges her ribs in retaliation. The touch, in a bed, at night, alone with a girl Edie has wanted for so long, makes her lick her lip, tighten her legs. Parker notices, breath caught.

“Anyway, my point.” She says, wavering between comedy and seriousness. It’s like she doesn’t know where to turn. Edie shuffles a little closer, until they can breathe the same breath. She lifts a brow. Edie never has known when to back off of a challenge.

Parker hasn’t quite learned how to quit. “But, the rest of the time, it was good. Great, even. I like sex.” She says, quietly, like she’s sharing a secret. “I think I could like sex with you.”

Edie’s heart stops, then picks up. “I should tell you something, about that time we went out after your finals, about Ameana.”

Parker smirks. “Yeah, I already know about that. Ameana told me. Who do you think I went to about my first girl on girl crush?”

Edie presses her forehead into Parker’s, a small thunk. They laugh together softly.

“I had sex with a girl that night.” Parker whispers. It’s a shock, Edie’s emotions heavy and confused.

“Did you like it?”

“I think I’d like it better with you.”

Edie pushes at her with her nose. “That’s a line.” She breathes, an inch from Parker’s lips.

“Maybe,” Parker smiles. “Maybe not. Do you want to know what I’ve learned?”

The kiss, when it hits, makes Edie smile into Parker’s mouth. “I would hope you would have already known how to do this.” She says. It’s a dare, more than anything. The part of Edie still sceptical, that the first flash of her pussy will send Parker running for the hills.   

Without hesitation, Parker sits up on her knees. “Take off your pants.” She says. “I’m going to make you come so fucking hard."

Parker eats her out for what seems like hours, Edie guiding her with touches and words. “It’s not a cock, don’t treat it like one.” Parker huffs laughter out against her thigh, moves to her clit, and the friction makes Edie groan.

Parker’s hands trace her legs, her stomach, her ass without pausing, and a slow heat starts to build in her chest. “Give me your hand, here.” She grits, moving it in place, her toes arching into perfect points as Parker’s rhythm hits the right stride.

It’s like lowering herself into a warm bath. It’s the first bite of an apple, juicy and sweet. It’s every touch and every look and every brush of a finger just right. Edie feels herself sinking, feels herself rising.

She gasps, going over, and she didn’t know there was something so freeing about giving in, certainly it has always felt like failure before.

Later, they lay tangled together, Edie shifting her hands through Parker’s sweaty hair, brushing it from her forehead.

“You feel amazing.” Parker sighs out against her collarbone, and Edie thrills.

 

  Anita blows out candles amid a chorus of “Happy Birthday!”

“You look like a monkey, and you smell like one too.” Jimmy adds, an important afterthought, and Anita pouts while elbowing him in the stomach. Edie smiles down into her lap.

“Chocolate.” Parker sighs, leaning heavily into Edie’s side, pushing her against the couch. Edie steals a bite from Parker’s plate in retaliation. “Hey, no fucking way,” Parker cries, laughs, trying to pick her fork out of the air. Edie successfully dodges her weak attacks with an empty plate, held in front of her chest as a shield. “You already decided to be sad and get vanilla. My cake can’t help you.”

Edie licks the fork clean, putting in a little extra show. She laughs as Parker’s eyes glaze over.

Ameana taps Parker on the back of the head. “No eating your girlfriend at the dinner table.” Table being the carpet of Edie and Anita’s apartment. It’s already full of questionable liquids--a red spot where Russell dumped half a bowl of soup, a splash of blue where Anita dribbled paint from a multimedia project, pink streaks from Parker’s nail polish, finally allowed out of her makeup bag now that she quit the waitressing job at Writer’s Quill for an esteemed internship in a counseling center, found for her by her professor.

“Really?” Edie had asked, as she watched the gooey texture seep into the carpet, Parker’s back arching as she tried to cover the stain without raising suspicion.

“Maybe if I still had long nails.” Parker said, turning her hand into an imaginary claw. The tips of each talon were buzzed off. “I had more extension.” To demonstrate this, she stretched out her fingers, wide. At the same moment, Jimmy tromped in from the back door, dragging his dirt clad feet over the floor. He looked behind him as he reached the stairs, a faint memory of each step pressed into the carpet.

“Uh,” He started, stopped, then shrugged. “Sorry, man.”

At that point, Edie had just sighed out a tired smile, letting the process unfurl as if it were an unavoidable natural disaster. Over more months, more fights, more kisses and hugs and utter ridiculousness, the carpet turned into an unintended Jackson Pollock tribute, a warzone of their passions spent out for everyone to see.

“You’re carpet’s nice.” Sammi had said, chuckling, and Edie likes that, that even if it is too heavy on one side and some of the droplets are putrid green and burnt yellow, it tells a story, one that people always seem to want to know.

“So the kitten was young. OK, I get that.” Russell is saying, explaining a particularly suspect spot near the side of the couch. Sammi and Jared muffle their laughter into sleeves.     

“What I don’t get is why you brought a cat into the apartment in the first place.” Jimmy says, an unlikely voice of reason. People are like that, Edie’s learning, surprising you when you least expect it.   

“Yeah, Russell.” Anita agrees, slinging an arm around Jimmy’s waist. “Why did you do that?” She giggles. “We might have to punish you later.”

A ring of hoots echo around the room, the group teasing as one. Edie shakes her head.

These stupid idiots, she thinks, leaning back against Parker, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips; she tastes sweet; she tastes different than anyone Edie’s ever tasted before. Russell’s voice moves through her head: “Now’s the time.” He says, and like a song lyric she’s heard long ago, a verse skates by, as if on cue:

I saw you and thought “My, how original, how rare you are!”

    And it was true: you are the only one in the world

But so is he, so is she.

Confetti floats down around her, courtesy of Parker’s college friends. Parker’s hands shove shiny plastic squares down her top; Anita runs from Russell and Jimmy’s combined glitter bombs; Sammi and Ameana fake-out Jared with an inspired sneak attack of tiny, shimmery strands. Soon, the whole house is covered in vibrant, glossy little shards, from the TV to the couch to the floor and, especially, the people within it.

  
Edie smiles. The world shines.


End file.
